The Standing Water

by David Castleton

I nodded. ‘Great age, England’s finest, height of Empire.’

  ‘You –’ the old fool leaned towards me, lowered his voice ‘– interested in this sort of thing, Sir?’

  ‘Well –’ I smiled, gave a shoulder shrug ‘– I do have a taste for the old gothic, memento mori and all that. And I’m a teacher – could be useful in the classroom.’

  ‘The gothic, memento mori, very good,’ the man murmured. ‘And, in those days, if you knew the right folks, it wasn’t difficult to get your hands on … let’s say, very genuine specimens. Prisons, workhouses, executions, quite a trade in supplying the medical profession. Plenty of buggers who weren’t the slightest use alive became very useful in death.’

  I grinned; the man nodded; we had an understanding.

  ‘Lucy I call her.’ His hand reached out, patted the skull. ‘Would have been about ten years old. Probably came from a workhouse or orphanage. I’m sure you could find a use for her, Sir, for your … educational activities. And, for you, of course, we could agree a special price. I’m sure –’ a wrinkled finger now tapped his nose ‘– I don’t have to remind you of the need for a little discretion.’

  So that was how I gained Lucy’s acquaintance. Always got a kick out of showing her to the kids, watching them as I went through the routine of how she’d been a bad girl, seeing their faces fall, their eyes blink, their lips tremble. Could almost hear their little brains whirring – trying to figure out how poor behaviour could lead to that. Fantastic tool for discipline. And I’d always have a sly chuckle to myself. Great to wheel her out to brighten up a dull day. Started off showing her to my class up in Newcastle then a little later she starred in those legendary assemblies in Emberfield. Superb! Who knows, when the supply teaching work starts rolling in, maybe Lucy could have her moment on the Scottish stage. Have to get that cupboard though. Being gurned at all day is a bit much for anyone!

  Saturday, 18th June, 1984

  Saw footage of the strike on TV tonight. Orgreave in South Yorkshire. Dreadful scenes – miners hurling rocks and debris, car set on fire, hand-to-hand fighting with the police. I was heartened to see the officers responding firmly. Can’t pussyfoot about with the working man when his head’s been filled with garbage by unions and communists. Have to come down on him hard, no nonsense. Pretty good show by the police – horses, dogs, batons. Let them know what’s what. Course, if I had my way, the army would be out. One order to disperse then mow the blighters down. Of course, if I really did have my way, unions would be illegal in the first place. Anyone who tried to organise one would have plenty of time to think about his foolishness while staring at a cell wall. The persistent agitators would face the rope. But, in this namby-pamby democracy, what we can do is limited. Have to say, I’m starting to warm towards her. Didn’t like her much at first – even wondered if a woman PM would have the guts to face down all those lefties. But she did well in the Falklands and she’s doing well now. Hopefully set a trend for more vigorous policing – just what this country needs to deal with rioting coons and striking workers. But I’m still not convinced – mistrust this mania for selling everything off. Mines, railways, water, electricity should all be owned by the government. Privatise this, flog off that – like selling the family silver. Soon have half the country controlled by Japs and Frenchies, Yanks and blasted Jews.

  As this strike drags on, sometimes see some action from the North-East. Always gaze at the TV, see if I recognise any faces. In many ways, I liked teaching in Newcastle. Liked a lot of the parents – good honest working people. Miners, shipbuilders – real men, not like the sappy office boys and dozy farmers down in Emberfield, tongue-lashed half the time by their prissy wives. Salt of the earth, those Geordies were, those whose minds hadn’t been poisoned by the lefties. Didn’t mind a bit of discipline for their ‘bairns’ either. Head was also a traditionalist so it was in that first job my palm really began to swoop. Of course, the miners and welders of Newcastle weren’t quite as accepting of the need for my right hand as the good folk of Emberfield. Did have one or two tricky situations when I was called into the head’s office, told I’d gone too far. Remember that final verbal warning. The thrashing that triggered that was one of legend! Sweat even now thinking about the effort I hurled into it. Head’s warning was one of the things that nudged me into looking for another job. That and the wife’s nagging that the countryside would be better for my health, nicer for Nick to grow up in. Saw the headmaster’s position advertised in Emberfield, applied for it on the wildest off-chance. Never been a deputy or head of year before or anything like that. Amazed to get the interview then even more astounded to be offered the post. Seemed the governors and the vicar’s predecessor were all impressed with me. Good job I’d decided to take a risk and be honest about my views on discipline. Gambled Emberfield wouldn’t be the sort of place infested by trendy modern nonsense. A few experimental thrashings elicited no complaints and assured me the people of Emberfield had perfect trust in me and my right hand. Liked me a little too much, it turned out. Stayed in the damned place too long. Suffered years of depression in those dismal marshes, and, of course, there was that awful incident with Marcus.

  I’m rambling again. Better get to bed. Forecast says it’ll be a fine day tomorrow. Have to power up the old boat, chug out onto the loch, get some fishing done.

  Sunday, 19th June, 1984

  Glorious day, sun hiding behind and peeking out of the clouds, tinging their edges golden. Loch as calm as a duck pond. Boat puttered me out into the lake. Old thing, but it was a pretty good deal to get it along with the cottage. Water practically deserted. Great feeling – just me, the breeze, the glistening loch, the boat bouncing and slapping through the water. Chugged close to the castle. Magnificent – standing on its grassy rock, weathered by time but still as strong as ever. Symbol of our history, our great country’s resilience. Dates from the 1440s – good stout keep topped by a couple of turrets. Yes, its stones are worn, it’s lichen-smeared, but I’d like to see anyone try to take it in a hurry. Plenty of history in this part of our nation. Have to try to see some before term starts in September. Should go and look at the standing stones over on Lewis. Stone circle with a long approach avenue. Reckoned to be 2,200 years old. A good few legends linked to it. Some say the stones were giants who were petrified as a punishment for refusing to convert to Christianity. Another tale speaks of a man called ‘The Shining One’ who’s supposed to walk down the avenue of Stones on midsummer’s morning, heralded by a cuckoo call. Have to get up to Orkney too – even more magnificent remains there. Huge megaliths, a stone circle, a Neolithic village, an underground tomb aligned so the sun shines into it on the winter solstice. Incredible! All those who love to denigrate British culture should see what our ancestors were up to thousands of years ago! According to the book I’m reading, whole thing’s part of a ‘ritual landscape’ – all situated on an isthmus between two lochs: a sacred space cut off from normal mundane life. Suppose it’s like us today putting walls around our churches or sticking them on mounds to elevate them a little closer to heaven and out of the worldly swamp.

  Anyway, the boat puttered me across the sparkling loch as I gazed at the mountains. The sheer feeling of peace! Best decision I ever made, moving up here. Free from Sandra’s damned silences and nagging attacks, from Nick’s whining, from the idiocies of Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Richard Johnson. Already feel like those buffoons belong to another life. This may sound heartless, but I don’t even miss Sandra and Nick that much. I hate the frequent family breakdowns of this ghastly modern world yet sometimes – when you’ve given all you can – you just have to give up. And I’ll have the lad here for a bit in the school holidays. Should be good for him, toughen him up, get him away from the babying of Sandra. Maybe I’ll finally connect with the boy when we’re just men together, far from her womanly fussing.

  I sucked in breaths of pure salt air, holding each for a long time in my lungs. It tasted just as good as any fine old whiskey. Should bott
le the damned stuff, sell it down south – sure there’d be plenty of takers. A cloud crossed over the sun, darkened the day, killed the shimmers on the loch at the very moment I thought about Father. He really hasn’t taken the divorce well. Old fool seems to blame me for it – me, when I did all I could to keep my family together! Maybe the old buffoon’s really losing his marbles! Remember how last time I called he was spluttering down the phone, murmuring pathetic threats about how he ‘might get something done’. Rage quivering his voice as he went on about my ‘damned fool idea of taking off to Scotland’. Well, let him rant! For the first time in my life, I feel free of him. He’s furious because he knows he can’t order me about any more. He ruined everything for me when he insisted I came back from Montana. He can complain and cough and splutter all he likes, but I won’t let him wreck my life a second time.

  I pushed the thought of that wheezing old devil from my mind, and – I swear – at that second the sun emerged from behind its cloud and once more lit the water with a thousand sparkles. I aimed the boat towards where Loch Laich flows into Loch Linnhe. Best damned thing that ever happened to me – my fall into the pool, my heart attack and so-called nervous breakdown. Never would have had the courage to make the break if something that dramatic hadn’t occurred, despite all the vicar’s pleas. He’d started off with gentle advice I should quit, but that holy buffoon was practically begging me to go around the time that incident happened. Nice to know at least someone was concerned for my welfare. Even got his friend Stone in so we had a smooth transition though – to be honest – from the little I’ve heard about his teaching, I’m not sure the vicar’s judgement was sound on who should replace me. Anyway, that’s all in the past; I’m out of that world now – thanks be to the Lord!

  It took a pretty extreme event though to force me to get away! Phew! Still have the odd nightmare about it despite all the counselling, and – of course – those nightmares are often mixed with what happened with Marcus. Think my mind’s blocked quite a bit of my accident out – common response to trauma, the doctors said, can only remember things in snatches. Know that for a while I’d been sitting by that pond frequently. Often wonder why I did that – sitting for hours hunched, gazing at my line dangling into Marcus’s waters. Should have known I’d never hook any fish. Easier for me to be rational about it now – the clear air and fresh wind up here blow away the dark thoughts that clouded my mind in Emberfield. There was something about that place, something ancient and evil that warped my thinking. Anyway, I reckon it was because I’d been tortured by all those bad dreams about Marcus, having to relive night after night what had happened in that pond. I wanted to overcome my fear: prove to myself I wasn’t scared of anything or anybody – not some stinking pool, not the ghost of Marcus Jones! The only way I could think of doing it was to simply sit and stare at those waters. To gaze for hours, to stare them down like I’d stared down horses, bears, bulls! Whatever horrors ran through my mind, however much I shivered and sweated, I’d force myself to stay on that seat, overcome my terror. So why the fishing gear? Seems crazy now, but I guess I reckoned – my poor mind poisoned by Emberfield’s foul lowland vapours, bewitched by the curses that still lingered, whispered in the air – that the fishing tackle would make it appear I was doing something ordinary so the gossips wouldn’t jabber about what I was up to.

  All I recall is that I was sitting, gazing at the pond and the next moment I was teetering on the bank. I crashed into the pool then I was thrashing, writhing with a terrific pain in my chest. Tried to wade out, saw two lads on the shore, think I scared them; I slipped, fell back in. Floundered and twisted in that freezing water as the pain in my chest throbbed. Had the weirdest idea Marcus was in the pond, pulling me down, trying to drag me to my grave in his sludge. One huge effort, I fought him off and was staggering from the water. Agony squeezed my ribs; the pain was now rushing into my left arm. Knew very well what was happening. Should have hobbled to the pub, got them to call an ambulance. But – shivering, soaked in filth, wracked with pain, terrified, mind racing – I was stupid enough to gather my rod and chair, and – luckily the keys were still in my pocket – get in my car, start the engine. Could just about control the vehicle despite the agony in my chest and arm. Edged it out of the gates. Two big black birds – ravens or crows – insisted on swooping down, blocking my windscreen with their wings. I jerked my hand to the horn, couple of blasts scared them off. Don’t remember anything more till I was halfway to Goldhill, twisting along that damned lane. Legend flickered through my mind of such roads being made bendy to confuse wandering spirits, who can only walk straight. Well, I didn’t want to be confused forever, trapped in the blasted marshes of Emberfield. I stuck my foot down and was soon flying along that corkscrew road, dodging startled rabbits and honking tractors. Nearly ploughed into the hedgerows a couple of times, I can tell you.

  Next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed. Docs chided me for not calling an ambulance, but – thank God – I’d got there in time for them to save the old ticker. In hospital for a while, rehab classes. Medics pretty pleased with my progress, but they soon realised all was not as it should be upstairs. Seemed the old mind had blown as well as the heart, just like with that damned Bonfire Night guy! Well, I say blown, that’s slightly melodramatic, but the docs told me I’d had ‘what used to be called a nervous breakdown’. If it used to be called it, why can’t we use the same phrase today! Probably got some long-winded modern term no blighter understands. Anyway, they gave me some drugs to calm me down, but at first I scoffed when they suggested counselling. Something I thought was for hippies and milksops! Had images of Jew doctors poking around in people’s heads in Vienna, murmuring some mumbo-jumbo then charging astronomical fees. I reckoned if God had meant us to root around inside each other’s skulls, He’d have blessed us with holes in our damned heads! Some things that go on in a man’s brain should stay strictly private. Anyway, I was feeling so low, so anxious I let the medics persuade me. Counsellor was a reasonable chap, ex-army, not given much to psychobabble – and I halted him quick smart if he ever strayed down that road. We worked through the trauma of my fall into the pond then started looking at other things that were wrong in my life: Sandra, Father, Nick, the blasted job. Didn’t tell the shrink everything, of course, I’m not that daft! No mention of Marcus. What happened with that boy will stay firmly shut up in my mind! But talking about the other stuff helped a lot. Helped me come to my decision. Vicar visited me a few times. If I needed any more convincing to get out of Emberfield and Goldhill, what the priest said in our chats supplied it.

  The boat chugged me into Loch Linnhe. Beautiful – wooded shores, the bulks of mountains rising up, rays of sunshine slanting through the clouds. Thought of how the part of that Loch that lies upstream of Corran is known as the ‘Dark Pool’. ‘The Dark Pool’ – I mulled that name in my mind, playing on its syllables. I looked down at the water as my boat cut through it. It was dark all right, the little waves black and glossy, like they’d been plated with glass. Staring at those waters reminded me of another pool. Reminded me of how all the trouble with Marcus started. Wasn’t my fault the damned fool boy got it into his head to mess about near that pond. I’d warned the kids enough about it in assembly, been on the phone enough times to the council asking them to drain the thing before some tragedy occurred. Around that time too, some idiot had dumped a big barrel in there, a rusty red oil drum. There it was, rammed into the pool’s bed, sticking lopsided out of the water. Asked the council if they’d at least come and shift that, but, as usual, nothing happened. Anyway, I was walking out of the school – around twenty minutes after classes had broken up one damp July afternoon – and what did I see? That numbskull Marcus Jones balancing on one leg on top of that barrel, his arms waving, a moronic grin on his face, his trousers muddy below the knees due to his wade through the water. For some seconds, I just stood, open-mouthed, watching the imbecile. A temptation rose up in me not to intervene, to let that buffoon drown himsel
f or crack his head. Would have saved my nerves a huge amount of stress if that boy was out of the way. Worst child I’ve ever taught – far worse than Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Darren Hill all put together. Surprised I’ve any vocal cords left after all the shouting I had to do at him, surprised my hand didn’t drop off due to the gargantuan thrashings I powered onto his backside. I watched, a smile now twitching as the idiot teetered, his arms outstretched. I found myself willing him to fall, yearning to see that blasted head smash onto the barrel’s side, longing to hear his skull split, see those damned devious brains spill out. But I sucked in a deep breath, tried to banish those delightful images. I reminded myself of my responsibilities.

  ‘Marcus!’

  My finger thrust at the boy. My shout echoed around the empty school, over the deserted fields, across the pond, shattering the careful silence in which Marcus had been balancing. The boy twisted his head, stared at me, mouth hanging, bulging-eyed. His arms waved more manically. His body swayed to one side then the other. The barrel slipped from under him. He flew into the air; for a second stayed suspended in it – arms flapping, legs wriggling, looking for all the world like an angel shorn of its wings. He plummeted; the waters received him with a crash. Streaks and balls of brown liquid were hurled up, like two hands flung in horror. The water smashed back down; there was no sign of Marcus. Just the sealed pitching skin of that evil pond. Those waters broke; the buffoon’s head appeared – spluttering, spitting out filth, face deathly pale where the dirt hadn’t smeared it.

  ‘Marcus!’ I yelled. ‘Just stay calm! I’ll come and pull you out!’

  I ran towards the pond, but that idiot boy couldn’t obey my instructions. He was in a panic – writhing and splashing. A couple of times his head disappeared below the surface then broke through it again as his mouth spluttered, gasped. I was sprinting as fast as I could, but before I was halfway there the boy struck up this damned wail. The fool’s gob was wide open, letting water in, making him choke and retch all the more.